Through The Cracks
by i regret this
Summary: Inspired by the moral of John Green's "Paper Towns." 'There are three kinds of friendship. It is the third kind that is the most remarkable of all.' The moment John realized Sherlock was just a person, which is when Sherlock realized how amazing John really is. Because we all know they're infatuated with each other. Not slash, duh. Please R&R! Art by br0-Harry on deviantart.
1. Prologue

_**A/N:** Yes. yes. I know. I haven't updated BTL. Idk, the muse just isn't there. I'm a terrible person._

_Anyway. This is like prologue, and chapters with actual - you know - events, to follow._

_I finished reading Paper Towns recently, and I had mixed feelings. I skipped over whole chapters because - yuck. Base humour and dirty language is just - ew. But the moral of the whole thing was fantastic! So I decided to write about it. This is dedicated to my surprisingly large amount of friends (I seriously have five now. Insane.)_

* * *

There are three types of friendship.

The first is the kind that is born through years and years of association, that is unplanned and unbidden. It creeps up on the unaware victims, and one day they'll realize that the person they've worked with, or lived next door to, or gone to school with is someone they would be very sad to live without. There is no act of befriending, nor any conscious effort on the part of either. This is the kind of friendship between siblings, and of school friends. Because you wouldn't see this person in a crowd and think, 'By George, what a fantastic person'. You love them dearly and see the special light of their soul, but the projection of that light is not anything of very much interest to you. What you see in them is an ordinary, beautifully unbalanced person, with very simple emotions, and you associate with them as a part of need, because they are just a part of your existence. Mutual dependence.

The second kind is, perhaps, a bit more exciting. It's the kind that grabs you in an instant, sometimes after a moment of epiphany, yet often in the first meeting. You are dazzled by this person. It seems that such a person is too amazing to actually exist, that they should be the protagonist in an adventure novel rather than an existent human being. You are fascinated, and you think how fortunate it is that, out of all the billions of people in the world, you have the chance to know them. They are a thing you think about in the night, as you ponder how such an extraordinary person could suffice to speak to you. You are somewhat cowed in their presence, eager to be accepted. You smile every time they speak to you. You are enchanted by everything they do, by the way their eyes glow when the sun slides in behind them, and their expression when they make a joke, the way the walk, and every endearing little speech pattern. It is by no means a sexual attraction, but a different kind of chemical attraction, one that is inexorable. Their soul calls to you and you cannot help but dive deeper, the projection of their light nothing short of a fix for you. You hold tightly to them, thinking that no doubt the bright flame will fade, as it often does with this kind of friendship. You see them not quite as a person, but as an idea. Infatuation.

The third kind is the strongest and most wonderful of all. It is the combination of both.

This friendship can be achieved by starting with either of the first two types. It is when you are in love with their true soul, in love with their ordinary weakness. You love the way that they cover up their flaws with defensive snarls or with awkward laughter or clever jokes. It is when you can peel back the layers of that perfect, incredible person, and see beneath to find a small, naked child, akin to the fears in your own chest. It is the day that you realize that this person, who you have known so long, is the most wonderfully complex person you've ever met, and that though you may know them for the rest of your life, you'll never quite get them down to a formula. It means you feel their normalcy and idiosyncrasies all at once. You feel foolish, for how silly it is to think that someone is more than a person, and conversely, how stupid it is to think that there is a single person on this planet that isn't a great big bucket of fascinating puzzles and contradictions and paradoxes. This friendship is when you realize the idea, though important, is not really the person. It is a reflection in a glass darkly. It is when you both begin to reach through each other's mirrors into each other, and this is why this friendship is the best of all.

It is the only time, it is the only way, the stop being alone. Because it is only when someone not only is fascinated enough to look below, but also aware that you are nothing more than a weak, insecure person hoping to be wholly loved. Inseparable.

And the day you realize you've reached type three is something you'll remember for the rest of your life.


	2. Chapter 1

_**A/N:** Hello dears. Haven't updated anything in ages. Here's the first part - this entire story is going WAY differently than I planned. Oh well, I'm just gonna roll with it. It's set right after the events of TGG, in the aftermath of the pool scene. Someone mentioned this idea a while back and I've been wanting to do it, and somehow that idea got incorporated here. Which was not my intention at all. *sigh*_

_Don't forget to tell me what you thought, and enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had thought John ordinary, to a degree, during their first few months of friendship.

It was fair enough; after all, in comparison to the great Sherlock Holmes, most people would fall short of any standard of incredible, aside from stupidity. Not that he thought badly of John Watson; in fact, he was the best ordinary person he had ever met. He didn't mind Sherlock's alarming and eccentric behaviors, and he actually had a brain that he wasn't afraid to use. But he was still ordinary; caring about mundane things like jobs and girlfriends and social conventions that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care about. Sherlock had to constantly correct him and set him right, and found occasion to call him an idiot frequently. Sherlock had always had an inherent confidence about himself; he didn't understand true insecurity. Failure was not an option for him, never had been.

Of course, John proved himself extraordinary enough to be a part of Sherlock's life that very first night. Clever, brave, loyal, and obedient. Exactly the kind of assistant Sherlock needed. And plus, John gave him a sense of fulfillment, a new kind that was not strictly intellectual. He had latched onto John quickly, because when would he ever find someone else who was such a great fit with his needs? He'd made the mistake of calling John a friend too soon and was rather humiliated over it, and for a long while afterwards he stubbornly would only call John a partner and 'colleague' in his mind. He'd focussed on John's pedestrian qualities, because it was only after that somewhat sickening check in Sebastian's office, and subsequent passive-aggresive ignominious glimpse into his past, that he realized how terrifyingly fast he had become attached. Mycroft would be utterly appalled.

And terrifying it was, because every now and again he would realized how quickly and deeply John had become ingrained into his life; not only into his work, which for all practical purposes _was_ his life, but his everyday life and his mind. Sherlock had not been looking for this; nor had he actually expected this to happen. He certainly hadn't been trying to be on his best behavior. He'd just honestly been his usual self, but that seemed to have pulled the two of them together with a magnetic power. Curious. He didn't know if John was experiencing the same thing - while he knew the main reason John stuck around was because Sherlock helped give him the thrill and purpose he'd missed as a soldier, and also avoided personal questions like the plague like any sensible British Man - perhaps it wasn't quite as terrifying for John, or maybe he just didn't care. Sherlock didn't care if he cared, really. Sometimes it was nice to have John out of the flat so he could think, and he was sure John felt the same way.

Today, he realized that he had failed. Horribly, and his salvation was had nothing to do with any cleverness on his part, which was sickening to him. He thought he'd been a step ahead when, in reality, the whole time he'd been two steps behind. And it had almost cost both of them their lives.

Finally, _finally_, formalities with the authorities were over and they were allowed to go home. Though they had more paperwork to fill out tomorrow. Curse Mycroft and his government. The fresh spring night had turned sour, and the lights of London seemed mocking and spiteful as Sherlock walked out of the office where they had been taken after the incident. John was still inside. Sherlock figured it was because he had been abducted for several hours whereas Sherlock had only been involved in the incident for ten minutes at most, and so therefore the poor doctor was being grilled for any details on Moriarty Inc. that he could provide.

Sherlock sure as blazes wasn't going to wait for him. In an hour or two the sun would peek out of the horizon, blushing insecurely. He called a cab once he reached the road some distance from the the door he exited from, and snarled his home address. He spotted John walking out of the building just then, but didn't have the driver stop. He was going home, and didn't want the risk of John's infernal babbling cluttering up his head. He was beyond exhausted, since he'd been working like a madman for the past few days, and now that the case was over he knew he was about to crash horribly. He hoped that John wouldn't try and talk to him when he got home, because Sherlock would most likely ignore him or worse, and then he would have to deal with a spectacular row before being able to properly sleep. Tomorrow morning he would probably be able to eat an entire casserole dish by himself (a habit which had John extremely concerned, he could tell, even though John never said anything about it). They pulled away from the dimly lit parking lot, and Sherlock pointed did not look at John, who was watching the vehicle drive off.

Chlorine would never smell the same to him, he just knew it.

He knew that even if he had pulled the trigger, chances were the bomb would not have exploded. The detonator was tiny and while the detective was a good shot, he was not the crack shot John was, and it would have probably been for naught. Their true danger came from the sniper. (Sherlock theorized that there could only have been one or two snipers, and that all the other sights were merely projected. After all, one of the sights was on the wall far above his head, and Moriarty would not have hired such a monumental idiot or slacker.) He could have taken both of them out in seconds.

Sherlock's mind suddenly began to wonder what it would have been like if John had been shot before him, and he would have to watch John's corpse fall to the ground for a second or two, knowing this was ultimately his doing, before his own life would be quickly and brutally ended. Then he imagined himself being shot first, and John looking at him with that sad, helpless, stunned face that he wore when he saw the victims at a crime scene, the one he wore when he found Soo Lin Yao's body. It hurt, though not as much as the first image.

He could still recall the cold shock that had gone through him so many times in those few minutes - the first when he saw John walk out, forcing Sherlock to consider the possibility that he had been horribly betrayed, the second when Moriarty had revealed himself, the third when John had jumped Moriarty (Dear God, that had been terrifying on a lot of levels), and the last being the moment he saw the sniper sights reappear all over the two of them. Funnily enough, all but one of those shocks had been John-related. He was touched that John had offered to die to give him a chance to escape, though that may have been plain military training, merely protecting a civilian. It didn't really matter either way.

His thoughts carried him through the ride easily, and he jerked out of his dark thoughts when he spotted his door looming in the window. He had truly come to think of this place as his home, instead of just his place of residence. Something that probably needed to change. Moriarty had promised, in essence, to harm John in order to get to Sherlock. It was an attack as old as time - men would have to watch as their families were killed unless they complied, children would be forced into submission because of threats against their parents, therefore reinforcing the idea that sentiment ruined everything. His weakness now led to John's imperilment, and had to be elliminated. He climbed out, slammed the door, and threw a couple of pounds at the cabbie without caring whether it was the correct amount. The poor man clearly didn't either, and drove away from Sherlock as quickly as legally possible.

The key was shaking in his pale hands as he fought with the lock. The stupid thing refused to yield, and Sherlock was truly a couple of seconds away from kicking the door down when it clicked, allowing him passage. He strode through and didn't close the door as much as throw it in the general direction of the latch. There was no stirring from Mrs. Hudson - the woman was deaf without her hearing aids, which in this case was a good thing. He went straight to his room and changed, not bothering to close the door.

Now clad in a dressing gown and pyjamas, he was about to collapse into the sheets when he heard the door to the sitting room creak on its hinges, and he froze for a second, his instincts warning him against an intruder before he relaxed, recognizing the sound of John's breathing. He then fell into a lifeless pile on top of his messy covers, dead to the world in seconds, his last thought being one of fear and anger.

* * *

The next day was icy - not outside the flat, but inside of it. Sherlock slept like death into the afternoon, and then promptly stationed himself in the kitchen and ate everything edible in the flat. John was in the sitting room, reading the newspaper. Sherlock watched, and though John didn't turn, he could tell he was being monitored. Soon all the bread had been made into toast and consumed, and Sherlock had moved on to leftover takeout, which was never eaten except on occasions like these.

Up to this point, neither of them had attempted to speak - there were too many questions, and too many uncomfortable answers. Sherlock's unguarded reaction of relief and - almost affection - at the pool now rankled in his mind as silly and juvenile. And, not to mention, it reinforced the blatancy os his attachment to John. A sort of defensiveness filled him, surely John was thinking about how sentimental that was, he would mock him for caring despite everything he claimed to think about personal attachments; and John was a military man, it was certain that he found such civilian expressions of emotion to be shameful. Sherlock was working himself into a formidable temper without even realizing it.

"No beans," he muttered crossly into a cabinet, after remembering that of _course_ there weren't any, he hadn't gone within a mile of a grocery store last night.

"What's that?" John asked turning a page instead of turning to look at Sherlock.

"Nothing," Sherlock said coldly.

John did turn this time, eyeing Sherlock quietly, a knowing look on his face. Which irritated Sherlock, there wasn't anything to know.

"It bothers you doesn't it? The fact that he got away. That he beat you," John said, a placid and sensible expression on his face. For some reason, this question seemed unspeakably stupid to Sherlock, and a condescending expression showed on his face.

"Yes, it does," Sherlock said with the kind of calm that lies over the ocean before a gale. "I don't know why it doesn't bother you."

John frowned. "Why would it bother me? I'm not the consulting detective," He replied, and turned back to his paper. The statement seemed like a slap in the face to Sherlock, and he took a bite from his bowl of peanut butter before answering.

"So, it doesn't bother you that you were so incredibly useless as to get abducted? You, a trained military man?" Sherlock interjected with the practiced air of someone who knows who to say something hurtful. John put the newspaper down and fully stood to face him. Somehow, Sherlock knew this as a sign that a row was starting. And for some reason, Sherlock realized very distantly that he wanted it to happen.

"Sherlock, aside from the fact that I was tranquilized without warning, that there were several trained killers involved, and that you were ultimately the one who put me in that position, did it never once occur to you, during that whole time that I was gone, that this might happen? You didn't find it suspicious that I never texted to ask you to get a couple other things from the store, or to check for updates on the case?" John asked, eyes ever so slightly narrowed.

Sherlock blinked for a second, his mind slowing everything down as he realized John was right. It had been a span of hours between the moment John had left and when Sherlock had walked into that swimming pool like an unwitting lamb to the slaughter. John usually came up with things after the fact that they 'needed', and it was not unusual to ask for any new developments in investigations. And Sherlock, the great idiot that he had been proved to be, had been to caught up in the game that he missed the most important move.

Time sped up again as Sherlock's mind released him into the present.

"And what were you thinking, honestly?" John continued, an ironic smile on his face. "Going in by yourself was incredibly stupid. You wanted to do that alone - you got rid of me. So, what, you didn't trust me enough to have me there? Is that it?" the ex-RAMC asked in that trademark dangerous calm.

"Well getting yourself kidnapped is hardly a shining example of why I should take you along," Sherlock retorted with equal control as he spooned more peanut butter in his mouth.

"Why are you so determined-" John started, but broke off. "You know what, never mind. Forget I said anything," he said in a tone that Sherlock flinch internally. John walked quietly back over to his chair and sat, resuming his paper. After two minutes, however, he put the newspaper down and left the room. Sherlock continued eating in silence, numbly staring at the countertop.

Sherlock realized he'd become far too invested - his mental alarms were blaring. The fact that John's words had struck him deeply meant that this friendship was becoming unhealthy on more levels than one. Not only was it putting John in danger, but Sherlock was giving his nemesis an easy way to destroy him. He knew Moriarty's type, and he knew the man would not back down. Not after he'd constructed such an elaborate plot this time. Sherlock had the biggest battle of his life ahead of him, and he needed to face it with a clear head. It was only a matter of time until this all blew up in their faces.


	3. Chapter 2

The next few days passed in a tense haze. They never spoke to each other except when absolutely necessary, and Sherlock had stopped asking John to help him on cases. Sherlock could see it in his flatmate's eyes that he longed to accompany the detective, but was either too good at holding a grudge or too respectful of Sherlock's wishes to impose - maybe a combination of both. What a contradiction.

Sherlock always felt his pulse increase every time the distance between them grew. Both of them were angry at the other, and both were stubborn to the grave. Even Mrs. Hudson had noticed, and Sherlock had heard her speaking in low, concerned tones to John outside the door. Sherlock felt shocked - the landlady had only known the man for a matter of months, and already she was this concerned about their relationship?

The same atmosphere followed Sherlock even to crime scenes, where he saw a pair of detectives off to the side whispering in conspiring tones and glancing at him. Since the two had been around a while (meaning one was not telling the other about all the weird things he'd heard about the loopy consultant), it probably meant they were commenting on some new development about him, which could only be John's absence, since Sherlock had been to a crime scene twice in the past week (Moriarty was showing off, it seemed) where those detectives were present, meaning they were not talking about his encounter with Moriarty. Sherlock rolled his eyes and inspected the crime scene as usual. He hissed in annoyance; this place had been positively trampled by police, making his job infinitely harder with their destruction of evidence.

"Where's John?" Lestrade queried, his arms crossed where he stood above Sherlock. The detective glanced up from his crouched position over some watery footprints, an annoyed expression on his face.

"Has the entire Yard made bets concerning how long I can maintain a friendship?" Sherlock asked caustically, gesturing with his head and eyes toward the pair of gossipers at the other end of the room, who noticed his glance and pretended to look at something on their phones. Idiots.

"Friendship?" Lestrade asked, raising a knowing eyebrow. Sherlock cursed himself inwardly for the slip but maintained external stasis.

"Well, probably not what the rest of you would consider friendship," the consulting detective replied with a shrug, and turned away to hide a pink tinge when he realized how Not Good that sounded.

Lestrade huffed but didn't push any further, and allowed Sherlock to finish his examination of the scene without further interruption, to the consulting detective's relief.

It was that very case that forced the two men into communicating again. Sherlock had worked himself into the ground, not resting or eating for the full 48 hours. It ended with him eventually finding the thief's hideout; and, contrary to his expectations - the perpetrator was still there. This oversight earned Sherlock a bad blow to the head and a tweaked ankle, and a colossally bad mood. By the time the Yard showed up, Sherlock was sitting with his arms and legs crossed in a chair, tapping his fingers on his arm. The criminal was handcuffed to the leg of a solid oak table, not going anywhere. It was another three hours of statements and legalities before Sherlock could go home, which he did gladly. He'd managed to keep from revealing his injuries to anyone, and the police had never been the most observant of people, nor were they prone to worrying about the local pain-in-the-neck.

He strode through the front door confidently, but as he ascended the stairs he allowed himself to feel the pain, and limped pathetically up the remaining steps. A hand hesitantly reached up to inspect the area under his dark curls that had been struck with a frying pan. He hissed in pain at the touch, and his hand came away bloody. Great. He'd be fortunate not to have a concussion.

The door to the sitting room swung open quietly, and Sherlock sighed with acute annoyance when he saw that John was still up, reading a book. Now he'd have to make sure John didn't notice his limp - the man's doctoral instincts could not be deterred, once activated. He bit back a growl of frustration when John turned around, eyeing his slightly slouching flatmate. Sherlock forced away his exhaustion and straightened quickly, but John had already seen it. Sherlock was about to dash off to the bathroom to get the first aid kit and then promptly lock himself in his room, when John's voice, in a very _Captain_ Watson tone, broke the silence.

"Sit down."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowed. He was not one to be ordered around.

"Sit. Down. Don't make me say it again," John warned.

"Why would I?" Sherlock said in a calm but purposely infuriating voice, and was turning to walk into the hallway. He got about two steps before he heard John again, and stopped, but didn't face his flatmate.

"Sherlock. We need to talk," John insisted.

"Not really," Sherlock growled, very irritated with the situation.

"Actually, we really do," John retorted. "Because if we keep this up, one of us will move out before the month is over."

Sherlock clenched his fist and his teeth, bracing himself for his own words.

"And that should concern me, why?" he asked coldly.

"Because Moriarty is out there, and he's coming for you!" John exclaimed, exasperated.

Sherlock turned around, his expression frozen, a thousand thoughts running through his head so quickly, like so many birds in flight, that he could not reach out and snatch one of them before they flew away.

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock asked lowly, but his eyes were searching John for a genuine answer this time. The ex-RAMC stepped closer, and for them, it was the equivalent of laying a comforting hand on another's shoulder; but due to how incredibly stoic and non-tactile they were, it was enough to communicate the same sentiment.

"Because I've seen what Moriarty can do, and you need to have someone there to have your back," John explained. Sherlock's eyes glinted as he was reminded that John was an army man - it was drilled into them from day one that fighting he enemy was a team effort.

"I don't need anyone to have my back. I can handle myself," Sherlock argued.

"No doubt," John said skeptically. "Now sit down, so I can treat your limp."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "How did you know?" he asked, slightly bewildered.

"You forget that I walked around for months with a limp. I know how it sounds," John replied as he took Sherlock by the shoulder and took him to his chair.

* * *

As John worked on his flatmate's injuries (the idiot had gotten himself a mild sprained ankle _and_ a concussion - _sure_, he could handle himself just _fine_.), meeting with little resistance due mostly to the fact that Sherlock was exhausted, he pondered what he should say. He was still livid with Sherlock for his actions that night. The stupidity of going in alone was utterly unparalleled. It was not uncommon for Sherlock to do something of that nature on impulse, but this was premeditated and planned.

It stung, because it gave John the distinct feeling that Sherlock didn't want him around because he was slowing the genius down. That he was useless and unwanted. That seemed to be what Sherlock wanted him to think.

Yet, John knew that couldn't be completely true. While he honestly had no clue how invested Sherlock was in this friendship, he knew that they were undeniably more than flatmates. They could go days without speaking word to each other, yet communicating in spades - in looks, in offered cups of tea. There was a strange camaraderie between them, almost like a shared solitude. The fact that Sherlock was the first one to call them friends made John wonder if, perhaps, the detective was more eager for companionship than he let on.

And, of course, there those looks. Looks, expressions, that spoke of all the things that were never said.

The look on Sherlock's face when John was forced to step out of the changing area.

The look on his face when he saw the bomb vest.

The look on his face when John jumped Moriarty - and the way the gun trembled like a leaf in the wind in his hands.

And, of course, the way Sherlock had frantically tried to put distance between John and that vest.

Not to mention the expression on Sherlock's face when John had mentioned Moriarty just a few minutes ago. He'd looked - almost afraid.

The Irishman's threat came back to John - the promise to 'burn Sherlock's heart'. Suddenly, he thought - maybe - Sherlock was afraid for him? It was a bit self-centered, to think he was that important to anyone, let alone a self-professed sociopath. But in the few months they'd been together, there was a powerful force drawing them to each other - something bigger than themselves, it seemed. While John didn't see Sherlock as vulnerable or needy, he felt like Sherlock really needed him - needed a friend to be there for him, needed an anchor when the genius swung between extremes like a pendulum. Sherlock certainly didn't need emotional support, but he did need someone he could rely on to have his back. John had found the purpose he'd lost when he'd been invalided when he filled that need, even if it meant his intelligence was insulted on a daily basis.

What an almost obscene thought - Sherlock Holmes was afraid - he was sure of it - even if it wasn't for him.

More importantly, Sherlock Holmes was _human_ \- astoundingly so. The man wasn't that much younger than him, but somehow he made John want to protect him, the way John had wanted to protect his sister when they were younger.

"Sherlock?" John asked when he'd finally finished. The concussion had been checked - not serious, but John would wake him up in a few hours to be safe, and the ankle wasn't too serious either.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, already starting to fall asleep.

"Next time you're about to do something stupid, call me."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked as John helped him struggle to his feet.

"So I can try and stop you, and then most likely end up helping you," John replied. Sherlock turned an amused look to him, and John was once again thinking about how silly it was of him to actually believe Sherlock about anything concerning himself. Sherlock suddenly sobered for a moment, clearly seeing something in John's face, but it passed quickly back into playfulness.

"I don't do stupid things," Sherlock protested, as they walked to the hallway side by side.

"Yeah you do," John retorted knowingly, a vague smile on his face. Something else flickered on Sherlock's features, but John couldn't catch it this time.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said, limping (not as bad as earlier) to his room.

"Night," John replied, and turned to go up to his own room, his mind awhirl with the discoveries of the night - tentatively wondering if he was mistaken in his seemingly irreverent conclusions.

* * *

Sherlock closed the door behind him and prepared for sleep, yet his pulse was racing. Was he really so weak?

He was terrified.

This was all happening too quickly for him to process - it was like being dunked into freezing cold water, after which you come to the surface gasping, trying to reorient yourself and figure out what the blazes just happened. Yet, it was a different apprehension than before. It was the kind of fear in one's stomach before the drop of a roller coaster, or the tense anticipation in the moments after kicking a winning goal and watching as it sailed past the goalie.

John was incredible. Sherlock had sort of known before, he supposed he'd known since their first case, but he refused to fully acknowledge the fact until now.

So many layers - and so much patience, yet so short-tempered. Both a soldier and a doctor, a killer and a healer. Unassuming and submissive, yet can take control of a situation with ease. Kind and compassionate, but stoic and sarcastic. A crack shot, an athlete, and adrenaline junkie, but one who loved a quiet evening. And, not to mention, truly brilliant in his own way.

Most importantly, he was Sherlock's friend. The very thought made Sherlock's brain give a repeated default message: _Error Error Error Error Error…_

Sherlock's. His. No question about it, now. A person who was actually willing to put with him, for some reason that had yet to be revealed. How did Sherlock ever earn this? What incredible turn of fortune had brought to two of them into each other's paths, they who fit together as if by design?

He laid down, his aching muscles loosening at last. There was a constant dull throbbing behind his temples and a persistent ache wrapped around his ankle, but nothing his great mind couldn't handle. He closed his eyes, content for once to let his mind drift into inactivity to let his transport repair itself.

Sherlock wasn't prone to emotions, normally. He was generally disconnected, too busy for hormonal highs that others seemed so disgustingly prone to. Even though he did put forth effort to avoid them whenever possible like a typical British man, it came naturally to his analytical nature. On an average day he felt nothing strong enough to interfere with his mental processes, and that was the way her preferred things. Under his control, and within his realm of understanding.

But right now, in the darkness of his own room, a ghost of a smile touched his pale face, before he feel into the peacefulness of sleep, leaving the deeper questions of friendship and loyalty to be pondered another day.

* * *

_**A/N:** I hoped you liked it! Let me know what you thought below. I enjoyed this, been wanting to do it for a while. I'm not here to argue into eternity, but just so you know, it bothers me when these two are not portrayed as stoical as they actually are. While I'm not 100% satisfied with the characterization, I just wanted to let you know what I was aiming for, while still giving them room to be the emotional creatures that all humans are. Idk about you but when I have any conversation that's halfway meaningful my pulse races like crazy. _


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